by Greg Cox
A blank expression upon his face, Joaquin trudged up the steps to the ambassador’s body and retrieved his throwing knife, extracting it from the dead man’s punctured skull with a single smooth tug on its hilt. He wiped the blade clean with the ambassador’s own silk handkerchief and returned the weapon to its hiding place within his belt buckle before descending to the stage. Khan clapped his hands sharply, summoning a team of servitors who swiftly and efficiently removed the ambassador’s mortal remains from the premises.
“I remind you,” Khan said menacingly, “that I have numerous followers, many of them unknown to you, placed in capitals and corridors of power throughout the world. Every one of them is ready and willing to kill on my command, no matter how highly placed or well-guarded the target.” His dark eyes narrowed as he fixed a steely gaze upon the cowed assemblage. “You may depend on this.”
He was pleased to note that, while the delegates continued to whisper and murmur amongst themselves, their multilingual mutterings sounded much less defiant than before. A new, and more agreeably tremulous, note could be heard beneath the soft susurrus of distraught and frightened voices. Excellent, he thought. Just as I intended.
Smiling, he returned his gun to its holster. “I am a reasonable man,” he stated. “I understand that full knowledge of my power, if made public too abruptly, might cause unrest and panic. Therefore I am prepared to maintain a relatively low profile until I, and I alone, judge that the time is right to announce the true extent of my domain. Never mistake my deliberate anonymity, however, for any weakness or lack of authority.”
To Khan’s surprise, one of the surviving delegates rose to challenge him. Khan recognized him as the adopted son of a celebrated American scientist and explorer, now a prominent Calcutta statesman. “You may kill me,” the man said. His face was tense and apprehensive, but his voice was steady. A large ruby glittered at the front of his white turban. “You may kill everyone here, but you cannot cut the world’s throat. Your gangster tactics will carry little weight with the nations of the world, who have dealt with petty warlords and megalomaniacs before.”
Joaquin snarled and reached for his belt buckle, but Khan held up his hand to curb any immediate reprisals. He admired courage, which the outspoken delegate clearly possessed in plenty.
“You are mistaken, sir,” Khan said respectfully. “I can, if necessary, cut the entire world’s throat.” He tapped out a command upon the podium’s built-in control panel and the map of the world disappeared from the screen behind him, replaced by a photograph of an artificial satellite in orbit high above the earth.
“Behold Morning Star,” he declared, gesturing boldly at the futuristic image on the screen. “Named after Lucifer, the bringer of light, for it is light itself that is my ultimate weapon. Ultraviolet light.”
Another press of a switch and the satellite’s image was supplanted by a graphic depicting Earth’s atmospheric layers. “Many of you are no doubt familiar with the hazardous effects of ultraviolet light, including skin cancer, cataracts, blindness, even genetic damage. Earth’s primary defense against UV radiation from the sun is the ozone layer existing in the stratosphere, roughly ten to forty kilometers above the surface of the planet. Sadly, that layer has seen better days.”
Live footage of swirling clouds and wind currents, taken from a much higher altitude, appeared on the screen. Much of the photo was colored green, indicating the presence of atmospheric ozone, but there was a much darker region at the center of the image, like a yawning void or cavity. “This is the infamous ozone hole above the Antarctic. First discovered in 1985 by, among others, myself, it is proof of the gradual erosion of the ozone layer caused by rampant use of chlorofluorocarbons.”
Khan saw heads nodding throughout his audience. “You may wonder why I am telling you this. After all, the world has been aware of the damaged state of the ozone layer since the eighties, and has even made some small progress toward addressing the problem by legislating against the manufacture and use of CFCs. An admirable example of international cooperation, really, but one that I can undo in a heartbeat.
“The top-secret technology at the heart of my Morning Star satellite was originally developed by a singular genius who preferred to be anonymous, to repair any holes in the ozone layer. That same technology can also be deployed, however, to tear open new gaps in the ozone layer, of whatever size I desire, wherever I desire—as I shall now demonstrate.”
Keying in a password known only to him and no other, Khan initiated a preprogrammed sequence that sent a command to Morning Star, now in orbit above the Antarctic. High above the Earth, and miles away from Chandigarh, the satellite’s unique apparatus subtly manipulated the Van Allen radiation belt to create a severe electrical disruption in the stratosphere above the South Pole. A controlled burst of artificial lightning broke apart millions of ozone molecules, causing the pollution-generated ozone hole to expand at an unnaturally accelerated rate. Thank you, Dr. Evergreen, Khan thought smugly, recalling the ageless scientist who had created the first ozone-destroying satellite nearly eight years ago. Ever cautious where potentially dangerous technology was concerned, Gary Seven had persuaded Evergreen to destroy that earlier satellite; thankfully, Evergreen’s diagrams and data had found their way into Seven’s copious computer files, from which Khan had later extracted them. And to think, Khan thought, that Seven would have let this revolutionary weapon molder forgotten in his files, when he could have used it to change the world! Khan shook his head in disbelief. Seven always did lack vision.
On the screen, the yawning gap in the ozone layer grew in size, its amorphous borders spreading outward to consume yet more of the protective vapors. The sudden surge looked like time-lapse photography, yet Khan knew that the hole’s rapid expansion was actually occurring in real time, right before the eyes of the awestruck assembly. “Sim sala bim!” exclaimed the courageous emissary from Calcutta. His fellow delegates looked just as horrified.
As programmed, Morning Star ceased its assault on the ozone layer after exactly five minutes had transpired. A collective sigh of relief rose from the assembled delegates as the hole’s growth slowed to a stop.
Khan did not let his guests enjoy any momentary release from anxiety. “At this very moment,” he informed them, “the ozone hole above the Antarctic is now twenty percent larger that it was less than five minutes ago.” Horrified gasps came from the audience. “Do not be deceived by the relatively modest scale of the projected images. I can assure you that the gap is now as large as the entire continental United States, and as deep as the lofty Himalayas are tall.”
He relished the appalled expressions on the faces before him. “Of course, you need not take my word for this. By all means, have your own scientists and meteorologists investigate for themselves, perhaps using the new European Remote Sensing Satellite, launched last year.” An unworried smirk conveyed his lack of concern over any independent testing. “They will only confirm what I have already told you.
“Now imagine another vaporous rent, equally vast, appearing in the ozone layer directly above each of your respective nations, exposing your populations, livestock, and crops to lethal levels of ultraviolet radiation. With Morning Star under my exclusive control, I can easily target individual regions, or, as a final deterrent, destroy Earth’s entire ozone layer in a matter of hours. Death, disease, and starvation would soon follow, on a scale not seen on this planet since the extinction of the dinosaurs.”
Cutting off the transmission from Morning Star, he subjected his audience to a barrage of swiftly edited, unsettling images: photos of cancerous growths spreading across diseased human flesh, unseeing eyes blinded by filmy cataracts, parched desert plains, dying fish floating atop lifeless seas, the protruding bellies of famished children. Many of the delegates were forced to look away from the unending montage of horrors, while others were riveted to their seats, unable to tear their gaze away from the grotesque and disturbing pictures.
When Khan judged that
they had seen enough, he ended the projections, rendering the screen behind him blank for the first time since he had begun speaking.
“Be reassured: I am not a madman. I have no desire to bring about such a doomsday scenario. But know that I can do so, and surely will, if any military attempt is made to depose me.” He fixed the assembly with a stern and unyielding stare. “I charge you: make this crystal clear to your superiors. If I fall, the world falls with me.”
Having revealed the existence of his most fearsome weapon, Khan chose to conclude his presentation. “The great American novelist Herman Melville once wrote, ‘In time of peril, like the needle to the lodestone, obedience, irrespective of rank, generally flies to him best fitted to command.’ By virtue of my superior intelligence and vision, no one is better fitted than I to guide struggling humanity past the perils of the present era into a new and glorious tomorrow. I am the future. If you are wise, you—and the governments you represent—will not stand in my way.”
He pressed a button on the podium, releasing the locks holding his audience prisoner. “You are dismissed,” he told them, declining to open the floor to questions or debate. He answered to no one, and the sooner the so-called leaders of the world recognized this salient fact, the better. He stood silently behind the podium as he watched the shaken delegations file out of the auditorium until only he, Joaquin, and Ament remained.
Ament, ever thoughtful, offered Khan a glass of water. “Was it truly necessary to kill the Indian ambassador?” she asked, now that there were no longer any outsiders within earshot. Ament often positioned herself as Khan’s conscience, a role he had no objections to, provided she did not question his decisions in public. Indeed, he welcomed her often critical probings; every king required advisors willing to voice their concerns to their liege.
“I could not risk being perceived as a paper tiger, all show and no real threat,” he explained, absolutely confident that he had made the correct decision, “particularly when challenged by someone with, at the very least, a nominal claim to the very land upon which we dwell. The ambassador’s death may well prevent additional bloodshed in the days to come, by convincing the world’s leaders that I am not to be trifled with.”
“If you say so, Lord Khan,” Ament stated evenly, conceding the point. He suspected that she remained not entirely convinced, but he accepted that; ultimately, all that really mattered was that he remained strong and certain enough to do what must be done. If Ament is reluctant to spill blood, he mused, that only makes her counsel more invaluable. I have assassins aplenty; it cannot hurt to have a more forgiving voice at my ear, even if sometimes, as today, that voice must be ignored.
“Excuse me, Your Excellency.”
A trim Nicaraguan man stepped onto the stage. Khan recognized the individual as a member of the Khanate’s intelligence corps. “Forgive me for interrupting, but I have important information that I know you have been eager to receive.”
“Speak,” Khan instructed. This sounds promising. . . .
The man smiled cruelly, perhaps anticipating covert action of a sanguinary nature. “We have located the Americans,” he said.
CHAPTER THREE
AEGIS FINE BOOKS, LTD.
CHARING CROSS ROAD
LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM
NOVEMBER 5, 1992
IT SOUNDED LIKE A RIOT OUTSIDE. NOISY SHOUTING, ALONG WITH THE smell of burning torches and bonfires, penetrated the cramped, cozy atmosphere of the bookshop, one of several occupying this most bibliophilic of London neighborhoods. Ordinarily, Roberta would be alarmed, but not on the evening of November 5th; she recognized the raucous sound of a typical Guy Fawkes Day celebration. Through the shop’s first-floor window, she saw hordes of costumed revelers marching down Charing Cross Road toward Trafalgar Square. As well as sparklers and torches, the festivants bore aloft life-size papier-mâché effigies of the infamous Guy himself, not to mention various contemporary politicians and celebrities, all destined for the bonfire before the night was out. Roberta spotted three-dimensional caricatures of Fergie and John Major on their way to incineration, bouncing upon the shoulders of their jubilant bearers. A string of firecrackers went off less than a block away, adding to the general tumult.
Sounds like fun, she thought, from her cluttered desk at the rear of the bookshop. A checkered flannel shirt and torn jeans were her concessions to the “grunge” craze emanating from her native Seattle, while a red AIDS ribbon testified to a more tragic sign of the times. Roberta hoped to join the festivities soon, but first she had to take care of some work. In the last week or so, she’d caught wind of a nefarious plot to burn down Windsor Castle sometime later this month. She suspected Khan was behind the scheme, possibly just to keep her and Seven busy while he plotted bigger mischief elsewhere. Still, I’d better look into it, she resolved, opening a new (and tightly encrypted) file on her computer screen, then firing off some inquiring e-mails to a number of her most trusted European contacts.
Roberta sighed, contemplating the size of her workload. In recent years, she had taken over handling most of the day-to-day operations and field missions, freeing Seven to concentrate more on the big picture; i.e. the growing threat of Khan and his overambitious supersiblings. She glanced up at the ceiling, figuring that Seven was no doubt hard at work in his “war room” on the second floor. She was glad that she could take some of the load off his aging shoulders, even if it did get a bit overwhelming sometimes. Don’t forget, she reminded herself, you’ve still got to follow up on those new reports from Chandigarh.
Plus, of course, she also had a new shipment of books to shelve. She wistfully eyed the small cache of fireworks—mostly sparklers and a few Roman candles—waiting atop her desk, and wondered if she would have time to take part in tonight’s celebrations. A scented candle, sitting atop her computer monitor, safely away from the fireworks, combatted the musty aroma of the bookstore.
The tinkle of the copper bell alerted her to the arrival of two prospective customers at the shop’s front entrance. She quickly replaced her notes on the future castle torching with a more innocuous spreadsheet, then glanced up at her visitors—who turned out to be Prince Charles and Ross Perot.
Or, to be more precise, Guy Fawkes Day merrymakers wearing store-bought plastic masks of the prince and the Texas millionaire. Not bad likenesses, Roberta thought, although the second man was considerably taller than the real Perot. But then, who isn’t? Heavy winter coats protected the impostors from the chill night air outside.
Roberta had spent too much of her life in New York City to be entirely comfortable with the notion of masked strangers entering her store, no matter what night it was. Just to play it safe, she lightly tapped a paperweight upon her desk: a green, translucent pyramid, about the size of three computer diskettes stacked against each other.
The pyramid—in actuality, a remote interface for the artificially intelligent Beta 6 computer upstairs—beeped once and emitted a faint glow as it scanned the newcomers for concealed weapons. She suppressed a sigh of relief as the pyramid beeped a second time, signifying that visitors were unarmed. “Good evening,” she said pleasantly, standing up behind her desk. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, please,” Prince Charles said from behind his mask. He stepped toward Roberta, leaving his friend to browse the shelves at the front of the store. “I am looking for a book, but I cannot recall the name of the author.” His voice held a hint of an Australian accent. “Do you know who wrote Far Beyond the Stars?”
Roberta recognized the title as a classic 1950s science-fiction novella. “That would be Benjamin Russell,” she volunteered, “but I’m afraid we don’t have it in stock.” She shrugged her shoulders and gestured toward the overstuffed bookshelves surrounding her. “We mostly carry history, current events, and other nonfiction works.”
“I see,” the man said amiably, not sounding too disappointed. “Let me write down that name.” He removed a small spiral notepad from his coat pocket, then patted himself down, ap
parently looking for something to write with. “Excuse me,” he said after a few seconds of fruitless self-examination, “may I borrow your pen?”
“Certainly,” Roberta replied automatically. She reached for her servo, which, among its many other uses, also served as a perfectly functional writing implement, and almost handed it over to the stranger. At the last minute, however, she hesitated, brought up short by a niggle of suspicion at the back of her mind. Holding on tightly to the silver instrument, she peered into the anonymous blue orbs observing her through the cut-out eyeholes of his plastic mask. Was she just being paranoid, or did “Prince Charles” look just a little too eager to get his hands on her pen?
Uncertain, Roberta glanced over at the man’s associate, the too-tall Perot. She couldn’t help noticing the way he appeared to be lingering by the front door, as if maintaining a furtive lookout. Maybe he wants to make sure we’re not interrupted, she speculated, feeling a chill run down her spine. I have a bad feeling about this.
She drew back her hand, intending to offer Prince Charles a convenient pencil instead, but he must have read her suspicions in her face. With lightning-fast reflexes, he grabbed hold of her wrist and squeezed it with preternatural strength.
Roberta gasped in pain, releasing the servo involuntarily. The bogus Prince caught hold of it with his free hand before it even came close to hitting the floor. Roberta kicked herself for letting her guard down, however briefly. I should have remembered, she thought, that Khan’s genetically engineered goons don’t need weapons to be dangerous.
Without releasing Roberta, Prince Charles deposited the captured servo into his coat pocket. Yet another one for Khan’s collection, Roberta reflected bitterly. She drew meager comfort from the knowledge that Khan wanted her and Seven’s technology, especially with regards to teleportation, even more than he wanted them dead. Which probably explains why he didn’t just obliterate the store with a bomb or missile or something.